


Alone in the After

by Ginipig



Series: Cullistair One-Shots [22]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alistair Left in the Fade (Dragon Age), Blood and Injury, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Major Character Injury, Past Leliana/Female Warden (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:48:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27772546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginipig/pseuds/Ginipig
Summary: Alistair manages to escape the Fade, but it's too little, too late, and Cullen is left alone. How is he supposed to go on after?
Relationships: Alistair/Cullen Rutherford, cullistair - Relationship
Series: Cullistair One-Shots [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604995
Comments: 18
Kudos: 9





	Alone in the After

**Author's Note:**

> About a year ago, a reader left a comment on one of my more [angsty one-shots](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22307437) (but with a happy ending!): _"Although in a series of unrelated one-shots, why not just twist the blade every so often? Say 9 happy endings and one soul-crushingly bleak one? =P"_
> 
> Well, here it is!
> 
> So if you want to blame someone for this "soul-crushingly bleak" fic, blame them.

“Alistair.”

When the Inquisitor said his name, her tone grieved and regretful but brooking no argument, Alistair stood paralyzed with fear.

But when Hawke screamed, “No! Let me stay, please,” his resolve hardened. A warm and comforting sense of peace washed over him.

“Right.” He nodded. “Good luck. I’ll keep it off you.” At Hawke’s horrified expression, he added, “Tell Cullen …”

Of course his voice wavered on that word. That _name_.

“Tell Cullen I love him. And I’m sorry.”

And before either woman could argue, he broke into a run, sword and shield at the ready.

“For the Wardens!” he yelled, and he was no longer afraid.

He sliced leg after leg of the gargantuan nightmare demon, keeping his eye on the Inquisitor and Hawke as they sprinted toward the rift.

And he tried not to think about how heartbroken Cullen would be when he never returned.

Cullen, who had suffered so much already, in both Kinloch and Kirkwall, but still made a choice to leave behind both the templars and lyrium, whose body now worked against him with every breath.

Cullen, whose courage and strength of will had so impressed Alistair that he’d gone and fallen in love with this surprisingly handsome, stubborn, snarky version of the boy he’d once known.

Cullen, who had only recently found the courage and words to tell Alistair that he loved him and wanted to spend the rest of his life with him.

Cullen, who would now spend the rest of his life alone, without him.

Alistair slashed and stabbed and blocked and rolled, and somehow he found himself on the other side of the Nightmare.

The same side as the rift, which was glowing green and shrinking rapidly.

Thoughts of Cullen grieving and pained and _alone_ propelled Alistair forward, away from the Nightmare and toward the man he loved.

He dove for the rift, praying he would be fast enough.

The jolting thud of his body on solid ground and the resonant explosion of green light told him that, by some miracle of Andraste, he’d made it back to Thedas.

An instant later, his vision blacked out as a searing, white-hot pain burned through his side.

And then began to spread.

He screamed.

The Maker had answered his prayer — he’d been fast enough.

But the Nightmare was faster.

* * *

Cullen skidded to a stop in time to see Hawke tumble from the rift, the Inquisitor right behind.

To his utter horror, she spun and aimed her hand upward.

Verdant lightning shot from her mark to the rift, brightening with a rising cacophony —

“Wait!” he shouted.

Where was Alistair?

As if in answer to his question — or was it a prayer? — Alistair dove through the rapidly shrinking rift only an instant before it exploded in a shower of green sparks.

But just before he hit the ground, something sharp and black and _glistening_ reached through the rift.

It looked disturbingly like a giant insect leg.

When the rift closed, the colossal limb dissolved in a puff of green magic, like everything else that belonged on the other side.

And then Alistair let out a blood-curdling scream.

Cullen shoved people aside — he didn’t know who, and he didn’t care, either — and collapsed to his knees beside Alistair’s fallen, blood- and ichor-covered form.

“Alistair!” Carefully, Cullen rolled him over and pulled him into his arms.

Alistair cried out in agony, and Cullen finally understood why.

The demonic behemoth had speared Alistair in the side. Blood gushed from the wound, soaking through his armor and cloak and pooling rapidly on the ground.

“Cullen …” Alistair’s eyes opened and took a moment to focus, but a shaky grin graced the beautiful face Cullen had feared he’d never see again.

“I need a healer!” Cullen shouted to no one and everyone in particular.

“M’sorry,” Alistair coughed, blood dribbling down his chin. “I tried to —”

“Shh, don’t talk,” Cullen said, cupping Alistair’s cheek. “Help is coming.”

Alistair shook his head. “Don’t think … it’ll work.” He coughed again, harder this time, and a disturbing amount of blood splattered Cullen’s armor. “Burning … all over … blood … ’son fire —”

An anguished cry cut off his words and sliced right through Cullen’s heart.

His hand moved instinctively to press on the wound, and he grew faint with fear at what he saw.

A ragged gash carved deep into Alistair, almost completely through to the other side. Which would have been bad enough, but the wound bubbled with something else — something green and hot that burned Alistair’s flesh, which first blistered and then charred black before dissolving completely before Cullen’s very eyes.

“Alistair,” Cullen breathed, and then he shouted, more urgently this time, “He needs a healer now! Please …”

The last word came out as a whimpered plea, and a hollowness bloomed in his chest. Because even if a mage appeared now, he wasn’t sure anyone could heal the demonic poison that was eating Alistair alive.

“Someone had to … stay and fight it off.” Alistair smirked up at him. “Why not a Warden … to fix the Wardens’ mess? Thought I could make it … I _did_ …” Alistair chuckled, and more blood dribbled from his mouth. “So unfair …”

Cullen’s eyes burned with hot tears. How could Alistair joke now, of all times?

“Alistair …” Maker’s breath, Alistair was _dying_ , right here in his arms, and Cullen couldn’t think of a single comforting thing to say.

But he could move, and he wiped the blood from Alistair’s mouth and chin with his thumb. Then he bit the glove at the end of his middle finger and yanked it off with his teeth.

If he didn’t have words, he would comfort Alistair — and himself — in another way.

He brushed his fingers through Alistair’s hair and then down his cheek, caressing it with his bare hand this time.

Alistair let out a pained whimper. “It’s so unfair,” he sobbed, and now Cullen’s thumb wiped Alistair’s tears, smearing them across his cheek and leaving clean tracks in the blood and filth. “I made it back … so you wouldn’t be alone …”

“I love you.” Cullen wept now, his own tears flowing freely. “I wish I could — I’d do anything to —”

Alistair, weak as he was, raised his arm and cupped Cullen’s cheek. “I love you, too … more than —” Several wet coughs interrupted him. “Wish I’d … said it … earlier … m’sorry … don’wanna … leave you …”

Cullen’s heart throbbed in pain. Even while dying Alistair was worried about someone else.

“I’ll be all right,” Cullen lied. “Don’t worry about me.” He pressed their foreheads together. “Just know that I love you _so much_ , Alistair.”

Alistair gasped for air; Cullen couldn’t tell if he was sobbing or trying in vain to breathe, and he gasped, too, at the acute ache in his chest.

“Juss don’ … giv’up …” Alistair slurred, cradling Cullen’s cheek in his palm before gasping again.

Then his hand went slack, his arm falling heavily against his chest.

“Cul’n …”

“I’m here,” Cullen murmured. “You can rest. It’s all right.”

And he pressed their lips together, not caring for anything but providing comfort for Alistair as he left this world to join the Maker. He felt Alistair’s eyelids flutter against his own cheek.

When they parted, Alistair let out a quiet sigh, his eyes closed, his lips quirked in the slightest smile.

Cullen pulled Alistair against his chest and closed his own eyes. “Rest well at the Maker’s side, my love,” he whispered against Alistair’s forehead.

He counted the puffs of air against his neck, each one weaker than the last.

One.

Two.

Three …

He waited for another.

And waited.

When no more came — when no more would ever come — his heart seemed to rend in half, and again, and again, until it was no more than shreds.

The hollow emptiness in his chest expanded until he couldn’t bear it anymore, and then …

He exploded into sobs, clutching his lost love, his _Alistair_ , against his chest, cradling his head and rocking him.

And he prayed, more fervently than ever before, that Alistair was comfortable, safe, and — finally — at rest at the Maker’s side.

* * *

Cullen stood, alone, atop one of the hills overlooking Adamant Fortress.

The Inquisitor left hours ago, at the head of the army, leading the survivors of the bloody battle back to Skyhold. It should have been him at the head; the Inquisition’s Commander had led them here, to this place of death, and it should have been him to lead them home, victorious. But in her guilt, the Inquisitor had allowed him this, the one thing he had requested since everything ended.

The tail of the army was nearly out of sight. He was supposed to be at the tail now; the Inquisition’s Commander, first to arrive, last to leave. That was what he and the Inquisitor had agreed on.

And he would be there. He could easily catch up.

Eventually.

Footsteps crunched behind him. He didn’t turn. He knew who it was; he also knew that he only heard her footsteps because she allowed him to.

Leliana came up on his left side. She, too, watched the fortress and the troops — led by Bull’s Chargers — left behind to clean up.

The structural damage, at least. The casualties had been gradually cleaned up over the past few weeks.

The two of them stood together in silence, and it was a comfortable one — or at least not an uncomfortable one.

“After the Blight, I didn’t want to leave Denerim.” Leliana’s voice was gentle, almost cautious. “I stayed through the end of the battle and the celebrations and weeks of clean-up. Every time I tried to leave, I found myself back at the palace, where the companions of the Hero were welcome to stay as long as we wished.”

Cullen clenched his jaw. He knew why she was saying this, but he _was_ leaving. Just … not quite yet.

“Do you know who finally convinced me to leave?”

Cullen’s eyes stung with tears. He was pretty sure he knew the answer.

In lieu of a verbal response, he tilted his head toward her — _I’m listening_ — without taking his eyes from the fortress.

“He did.”

Cullen’s vision blurred severely, and he had to take a deep, soothing breath, but he said nothing.

“He told me that she would be upset with me if I didn’t live my life, and that we owed it to her to do all the things we wanted to do because she no longer could. The next day, I responded to the summons I’d received from then-Mother Dorothea and left for Val Royeaux a week later.”

Cullen nodded. He wasn’t sure why she was telling him this. Technically, he had already left Adamant and was standing on a hill looking back. He would follow the army after a bit.

Just — not yet.

After … well, just _after_ , once he’d regained control over his emotions, he threw himself into his work, as was his wont. Alistair was taken away by the people who had been assigned to care for the dead, and Cullen had returned to his tent, bathed, changed clothes, and set to work.

He wrote and read reports, he organized searches and clean-up, he met with the war council. In between, he ate when he was brought food, he drank when he was brought water, and he slept when his aides said they were retiring for the evening.

Well, attempted to sleep. Sometimes he even succeeded. But his rest was always interrupted by nightmares.

Or rather, more accurately, by dreams. Could dreams even be considered nightmares if they were happy? He had assumed any sleep would bring to mind the horrible memories of losing Alistair, but in fact, the opposite was true. He dreamt of Alistair, alive and grinning; of the two of them, retired and happy after the defeat of Corypheus; of years together, full of love and laughter and long lives, in spite of the Calling and the lyrium.

And upon waking from each and every one, his new reality crushed him — Alistair was gone, and never again would Cullen be happy.

In the first days, everyone checked on him regularly — Dorian, Bull, Josephine, Leliana. Even Sera poked her head in once or twice and offered to keep him company. They had all loved Alistair — how could anyone not? — and they all felt his loss. But he had only wanted to work.

The Inquisitor and Hawke had come by, first together and then separately, to apologize. They both feared that he blamed them — Hawke for being the one who “should have” stayed, and the Inquisitor for making him stay behind. He assured them he didn’t blame them. The situation and the choices made in response were not either of their faults. If the Warden had been anyone other than Alistair, Cullen couldn’t even say _he_ would have chosen differently.

But Maker, he wished he could blame someone. Anything, even misplaced anger, was better than the emptiness. He tried to blame the Wardens — for recruiting Alistair in the first place, for forcing him to fight in a Blight, for not caring much in the decade after, and then for ignoring Alistair’s warnings. But they weren’t truly to blame, as they had been tricked and coerced into their actions. He thought about blaming Erimond for said tricking and coercing, but Alistair falling into the Fade wasn’t his fault.

For a fleeting moment he almost blamed _Alistair_ — for rebelling against the Wardens, for staying so close to the Inquisitor during the battle, for trying to save Clarel and falling over the edge, for offering to be left behind. For not being Maker-damned fast enough.

But in the end, no one was to blame but Corypheus. And so Cullen put his head down and worked toward their goal ever since Haven — defeating Corypheus.

On the second night after the end of everything, Cullen considered taking lyrium again to stop it all — the dreams, the pain, the emptiness created by Alistair’s absence. His withdrawal symptoms always worsened as his emotions did; thus did the cravings almost convince him that even lyrium would be better than … this. The night had been a long one, spent staring at a vial he’d (too easily) stolen from Dorian and debating which would be worse — continuing to crave the cool, soothing liquid that could make everything else fade into the background, or disappointing Alistair by giving up and giving in. By morning, he hadn’t slept, but he had thrown the vial over the battlement walls of the fortress that had taken Alistair from him.

Thousands had fallen during the battle; the pyres burned day and night for over a week. Alistair’s was separate, special, and attended by all. The Inquisitor spoke of his heroism, and the Wardens spoke of how he had embodied their motto.

_In War, Victory._

_In Peace, Vigilance._

_In Death, Sacrifice._

Cullen had placed Alistair on the pyre himself, had insisted that Alistair lay just as he had died — in full armor, still bloody. And wearing Cullen’s coin.

It was supposed to be lucky, but if that was the luck it carried, he didn’t want it. Nor did he want the reminder that he couldn’t save the man he loved.

He had thought that perhaps he would find peace at Alistair’s pyre. Instead, he’d knelt in front of it for hours, until every ember was extinguished, and all he’d found was more emptiness, as if a part of him hadn’t been truly convinced Alistair was gone until the smoke rose to the heavens and the ashes blew into the wind.

But Alistair _was_ gone. Nothing of him remained at Adamant Fortress.

So why couldn’t Cullen leave?

“Do you —” His voice hoarse, he cleared his throat and tried again. “Do you visit Denerim often?” he asked Leliana, who was still standing next to him in patient silence.

“No. I have returned only twice, both times on Chantry business.” She tilted her head, as if in thought, but her gaze remained on the Fortress. “It is a city like any other now. I feel no emotional connection to it, positive or negative, aside from the sadness I feel whenever I miss her.”

“Is there no memorial?”

“There is. But she is not there.”

That was an unexpected relief. Cullen did not wish to make pilgrimages to the Western Approach for the remainder of his days; nor did he, as foolish and petty as he knew it was, relish the thought of Alistair resting for eternity in _Orlais_ of all places.

“Where is she, then?”

Leliana smiled and turned to look at him at last, her eyes glistening with tears. “She is here.” Leliana rested her hand over her heart. “With me.”

Cullen closed his eyes, but that did not stop his tears from falling. The first tears he’d shed since he held Alistair in his arms.

And only then did Leliana wrap her arms around him; together, they cried on each other’s shoulders for Alistair.

Cullen could not say how long they stood there, but once they had both calmed, Leliana pulled away.

After several minutes of silence, she said, “There is still much work to be done, if we are to defeat Corypheus.”

Cullen said nothing.

“You will stay until it is finished?”

He nodded. “Until it is, or I am.”

Cullen had no doubt of that. Alistair had made his feelings absolutely clear.

_Just don’t give up, Cullen._

And he would not. He would stay with the Inquisition until the end — Corypheus’s end, or his.

Leliana watched him for a moment. “And after?”

After.

_After_ was unclear. Once the work was done — assuming he survived — then what?

Cullen had given it probably too much thought, but he preferred the option of heading to the Deep Roads.

There was a poetry to it. A fitting end for them both.

Alistair had died fighting demons for the Inquisition. It seemed only fair that Cullen die fighting darkspawn for the Wardens.

Perhaps that would change with time. But he thought not.

“Ah,” Leliana said, and not for the first time did he feel like she could read his mind. “A discussion for later, then.”

Or never, but Cullen would not hold out hope for that.

Leliana, true to her word, did not pursue the topic. Instead, she reached out and touched the shield on his back. “You decided not to leave it with the Wardens?”

Alistair’s shield — bearing the Warden crest and having previously belonged to Duncan, Alistair’s mentor and father-figure — sat differently than Cullen’s own. It was shorter and wider than his kite shield and felt heavy on his back. He still wasn’t sure about keeping it; he wasn’t a Warden, and wearing their crest felt wrong. But …

“I didn’t trust that they would treat it with the respect it deserves.”

Leliana nodded, understanding without judgment. “And the sword?”

Cullen gripped the hilt of the sword at his hip. Compared to the shield, the star metal longsword which Alistair had called Starfang (a gift from the Hero of Ferelden) hung comfortably from his belt, beautiful and deadly and lighter than most swords of similar size. Alistair had wielded it since the Blight, and perhaps all those things together made carrying it feel _right_ , like a piece of Alistair would always be there to protect him.

Leliana smiled. “I think he’d have wanted you to have it.”

Cullen bowed his head. The emptiness in his chest eased slightly, and that was what filled him with the courage to turn around with Leliana, mount his horse, and follow the army away from Adamant.

He did not look back.


End file.
